Tidings of Comfort and Joy?
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Merry Christmas? Not if your name is Mycroft Holmes it isn't! A dip into his diary reveals that things do not always run to plan over the festive season. Bah, humbug! COMPLETE!
1. The First Nowell?

_**In 1976, a trunk bearing the label 'Mr Mycroft Holmes Esq.' was discovered in the attic of the Diogenes Club. Inside were a number of journals, relating principally to those years when his celebrated younger brother was practising as a private consulting detective. Written in an obscure code, finally deciphered in 2008, and translated from the original mirrored Latin text, presented here for the first time is a series of short extracts relating to the Christmas period of 1888.**_

* * *

**Tidings of Comfort and Joy?**

_Wednesday, 19th December 1888 – The First Nowell?_

So, it has finally happened. Took me completely by surprise and from such an unexpected source too.

Quietly minding my own business, half listening to the PM fretting over the latest problem with the Cabinet, half thinking about tomorrow's Governors' Meeting at the club, when from out of nowhere – "And a Merry Christmas to you both".

This from the butler of all people, with the tea and biscuits still on his tray. One would have thought he should have known better. Whatever is the world coming to?

Of course, one is obliged to respond in kind. That sort of thing is expected. So startled was I that I could barely mumble a reciprocal gesture. Indeed, I believe I added a wish for a 'Happy New Year' into the bargain, which is nonsense this side of Christmas Day.

I can only say that I was thoroughly ashamed at being hagridden into Christmas pleasantries. I caught the PM giving me a peculiar look over the mince pies as the fellow left – this is the man I have told time and time again that I have no liking for the festive season. He must think I am suffering from a softening of the brain.

As a general rule, I do not believe it appropriate to start with this absurd annual ritual – if one must, that is – until Christmas Eve, working on the basis that one risks repeating oneself when festive greetings are bestowed too early.

Acquaintances can be comfortably dealt with when one is able to anticipate one's final meeting – a shake of the hand, as sincere a wish of 'Happy Christmas' as one can muster, and that is the matter dealt with for another year. Exchanging similar pleasantries with strangers, tradesmen and passers-by should be avoided at all costs – it leads onto familiarity, and thence to contempt, and before you know where you are, they are turning up on your doorstep bearing gifts and expecting something in return.

Relatives are another matter. Thankfully, I am cursed with one lone brother and he as desirous of his own company as myself. Best of all, he does not make himself a nuisance. Occasionally, Sherlock will turn up with some problem that has thrown him out of kilter, usually at dinner time and usually with that hungry look about him that obliges me to act the hospitable host and invite him to stay.

As younger brothers go, if one must have one, then I suppose Sherlock is tolerable. Some time ago he stopped calling on my purse and switched his attention to my time, which I tell him is just as precious and worth more than he could afford if I had a mind to start charging for services for which the government pays handsomely and he nothing. He seems to find this amusing – one day, I'll present him with a bill and then we shall see if he still has the gall to laugh.

Someone asked me the other day what _exactly_ it is he does. I tried to explain it, but I fear I made little impression on the fellow. He commiserated with me, said he had had the same trouble with his younger sibling, and that one day they come to their senses and grow out of it.

Personally, I do not hold out much hope of that happening in Sherlock's case. If the impossible does finally happen, I suspect we shall both be too old to care.

True, he does not have what our father would have called 'a proper job', but then neither do half the people who work in Whitehall, so that cannot be held against him. When one creates a profession for oneself, the accusation is bound to come that it is idleness by another name. No doubt the fellow who created the role of monarch for himself came in for similar criticism.

To his credit, Sherlock is the only person I know who has taken a hobby and turned it into a successful enterprise. Thanks to that friend of his, his name has become a household word. Strange to think of him being spoken of in the same hushed breath as Lyton's Horse Embrocation, Spencer's Perfumed Soap, Bryce's Choice Leaf Tea and all the other domestic essentials that ease the daily round. One could debate which is the most useful of the four; I suppose it depends on one's circumstances at the time.

Talking of his friend – an amiable fellow is Dr Watson, as I believe I have mentioned before, what I would call, with no offence intended, 'normal' – he married a very pleasant young woman this year, which means Sherlock will be Christmasing alone.

This is not good news. I suspect he is fishing for an invitation to Christmas lunch – and no wonder. I had the good foresight to insist on a first-rate French chef for the Diogenes and he has never disappointed, even if he has failed to master the fine art of the Yorkshire pudding.

I could take pity, but I shall refrain from doing so unless he asks. And then solemnly undertakes to behave himself. I will not have a repeat of last time.

On that occasion, when he stayed at the club for the Christmas meal, he had the temerity to say that the turkey was dry, the cabbage limp and the sprouts too hard. Such language came from the kitchen when this was reported, the like of which I hope never to hear again. I understand the chef threatened to do ungodly things to him with the rolling pin and had to be restrained. So much for the season of goodwill.

Addendum: I find that looking at my entry for this time last year, I had not the misfortune to be wished 'Season's Greetings' until the 23rd December.

Whoever said that Christmas comes earlier every year I fear was sadly correct.

* * *

_**Next: Thursday, 20**__**th**__** December 1888 – Deck the Halls?**_


	2. Deck the Halls?

_**Tidings of Comfort and Joy?**_

_Thursday, 20__th__ December 1888 – Deck the Halls?_

A tiresome day, full of wearisome repetition.

Started the morning with a meeting with the Home Secretary, who has been having trouble with his haemorrhoids. Asked if I knew a good physician – I do, but since the HS has a tendency to go through doctors like the average fellow goes through tobacco, I hesitate to spoil an acquaintanceship in so futile a manner.

Then onto a meeting with the Foreign Secretary, who is having trouble with his mother-in-law's back – or did he say his mother-in-law _was_ back? I must admit I never really listen to the man. Either way he has my sympathies.

On to _another_ meeting with the PM, who is still fretting about the Cabinet. The source of his worries? Should he send his Christmas cards by post or hand them out at the next Cabinet meeting? Told him to send them out – anything else looks cheap. No doubt he _is_ cheap – he has the Downing Street cat lick his postage stamps to save himself the bother – but better not to advertise that fact.

Then, the final meeting of the day with the Governors of the Diogenes Club.

First order of business: Percy Braithwaite. The fellow has put his name up for selection _again_. We returned the gesture and refused his petition _again_.

One has to admire his tenacity. Had I been refused eight times, I should throw my hat in and admit defeat. Unfortunately, he has more chance of being invited to take tea with the Queen at Balmoral than gain our approval. He is _quite_ unsuitable, so why he wants to join us is a mystery to me. Morris Grunt-Lightly, who lodges in the rooms above his, reports that Braithwaite regularly entertains. He has also heard him singing and talking to himself.

As I say, quite unsuitable. We have advised him to try the Carlton – they take anyone.

Correspondence: the Secretary received a letter from the widow of old Elias Bore-Acres, thanking us for the wreath we sent to his funeral. It was the least we could do, considering that the old fellow had been slumped in his chair in the library for three days before anyone noticed that he had passed away. Well, he never did say much.

Secretary asked whether it would be advisable in future for the steward to wake sleeping members every five hours to check for signs of life. Motion carried unanimously.

Finances: as usual, the club has a healthy sum in the bank, although Jeremiah Princely-Hiccup suggested that better rates of interest are available _elsewhere_. He recommended the Hiccup and Sheepdip Bank in Piccadilly – but then he would, seeing as how his family founded the establishment and still rakes in a healthy dividend.

The Treasurer reported that he would give the matter due consideration – since I _am_ the Treasurer, I can state with some confidence that the matter will be going no further. I prefer safe investments for the club's funds – I have no faith in a banking establishment that once thought backing a venture to send coals to Newcastle was a good idea.

Any Other Business: none. Thought that was the end of the meeting.

Then Gusty Matthews piped up and wanted to know what was happening about Christmas this year. The usual, he was told. Starting with Christmas lunch, there would be soup, salmon, turkey, desserts, sweetmeats, coffee, mints, exhaustion, more coffee, even more exhaustion, rounded off with mulled wine, sherry and a welcome nap.

"What about a Christmas tree?" he wanted to know.

What about it, said we.

He has no teeth, Gusty Matthews, so that every time he speaks he has to smack his lips and suck his gums dry of saliva. He did have a false set once, made up of other people's teeth, one of which he said belonged to Nelson's mistress, Emma, Lady Hamilton. This I doubt, although he was fond of taking them out to show anyone who was interested Lady Hamilton's left canine. Or was it her right molar? That particular story seemed to change every time he told it.

The upshot was that he took them out so many times that he lost them. Put them down one day and the steward cleared them away. He thought they were gone for good, until they turned up in the kitchen where one of the boys was using them to crimp pastry.

I have disdained pie crust from that day to this and Gusty Matthews donated his teeth to the British Museum, where they too perpetuate the myth of Lady Hamilton's canine.

I mention this only because Gusty Matthews was so heated about the aforementioned tree that he forgot to smack and suck, so that we were treated to a shower of spittle that sprang from his mouth like the Hyde Park foundations. While we mopped ourselves down, he put forth his case.

"Christmas isn't Christmas without a tree," said he.

I worry about him. He has begun to show alarming signs of mawkish sentimentality in his dotage. Saw him patting a dog the other day – from there, it is but a short step to cooing over small children and seeking out the company of one's fellow man. An imbecilic smile settled on his face on the 1st December and has become broader with each passing day. If this continues, I might table a motion next year to have his membership revoked on the grounds of burgeoning senility.

For the present, I felt compelled to ask him the reason for this sudden burning desire to festoon a perfectly comfortable interior with items better suited to a forest.

"Because it is Christmas!" he enthused, again forgetting that one's oral secretions are best kept to one's self.

I have heard people use this excuse to cover any multitude of sins and assorted instances of madness over the festive season. Drunk too much? Well, it is Christmas. Disinherited the family following a row over the size of the goose? That is what happens at Christmas. Feel like taking a dip in the Serpentine on Christmas Day? Tradition, my dear fellow; we started doing so in 1864 and mean to continue.

In the case of Gusty Matthews, I thought it better to nip this foggy notion in the bud. I pointed out that we had not had a tree since the club was established and there was no good reason to start now.

I added, for good measure, that I thought the custom of bringing one's garden indoors at Christmas should be confined to the dustbin of history, along with holly, ivy and mistletoe, that Druidic favourite, which is entirely to blame for the amount of lascivious behaviour to be found at this time of year.

I was confident that I had carried the argument. Rather too confident, I fear, for I soon found that I was in the minority.

Ponsonby Ponsonby-Jones, our chairman for this fiscal year, said that a number of visitors to the club last year noted our failure to observe even the basic Christmas rituals. He said we had been harangued by carol singers for our lack of a holly wreath on the street door and called 'a bunch of old Scrooges' by the chimney sweep for neglecting to give him his Christmas box. This bold fellow added that, unless a shilling or two was forthcoming next year, we could find someone else to sweep our chimneys.

At this, murmurs of dissension around the table. Seeing my case slipping away, I asked were we to be blackmailed into setting aside the constitution and the principles on which this club was founded simply in order to please other people?

Gusty Matthews accused me of being Puritan in outlook. Was it our place, he argued, to stop other people enjoying the festive season? Replied that I failed to see how our not having a Christmas tree was spoiling anyone else's enjoyment. What about our guests, he asked?

A good hour was wasted on this discussion, during which I was finally outvoted and a compromise reached. The Diogenes _would_ have a Christmas tree, but it was to be confined to the Stranger's Room and set in the window, so that all London might see that as unsociable as we were, we did keep up Christmas traditions.

Princely-Hiccup was appointed to oversee the purchasing of said tree, along with decorations, candles and other assorted Christmas ephemera. I suggested sixpence to cover his expenses; he said one pound – either we were doing it right or not at all. I objected, on the grounds that the pound would be better donated the Orphan Hospital than wasted on passing fancies.

I was overruled.

The Treasurer was obliged to take the exorbitant sum of one pound from petty cash. Told Princely-Hiccup that I wanted to see receipts.

Went home and tried to console myself that Christmas would soon be over.

* * *

_**Next: Friday, 21**__**th**__** December 1888 – God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen?**_


	3. God Rest You Merry?

_**Tidings of Comfort and Joy?**_

_Friday, 21__th__ December 1888 – God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen?_

I have long thought that Fridays are a waste of time.

No one feels inclined to start anything, taking the view that Mondays are the better time for that sort of thing. Then comes Monday and no one feels like starting anything too onerous at the beginning of the week. Better left till Wednesday, they say. Come Wednesday, they have forgotten what it was they were supposed to be doing. By Friday, when they have remembered, the whole process starts again. As I say, a waste of time.

This Friday was more of exercise in tedium than usual. PM concluded Cabinet Meeting by suggesting we have mulled wine and mince pies. Thought I might slip away at that point, but then cornered by the Home Secretary. Spent the whole time standing – apparently, his haemorrhoids are no better. Listened to his lament for an hour before excusing myself on the grounds of a headache.

Had to divert from my usual routine and call round to Leadbetter and Sons in Jermyn Street to purchase enough snuff to sustain me over the Christmas period. It does take me out of my way somewhat, but the shop is a haven of respectability and normalcy, especially at this time of year.

Divine smells draw one into the shop and the eyes are lead to feast on row upon row of tobacco and pipes and other smoking paraphernalia. Behind the counter, Old Mr Leadbetter, the proprietor, has been there for as long as I can remember, having sold me my first ounce of snuff when I was a mere stripling youth.

He never seems to age, having to my young eyes always appeared old, although I suppose he must be somewhere in his mid-eighties. We perform our ritual, the exchange between seller and customer, the wrapping of the purchase, the farewell, the departure and the knowledge that in a world of constant turmoil at least there are some things that never seem to change.

I was, therefore, greatly disconcerted to find that things _had_ indeed changed at Leadbetter and Sons, and not I might add for the better.

My first warning that all was not as it should be came when I glimpsed a sprig of holly bedecking the ancient hookah pipe that has stood proudly coated in a deep layer of dust in the shop window for many a long year.

My fears were confirmed upon entering the establishment to find not Old Mr Leadbetter at the till, but a younger man, whom I took to be one of the 'Sons' of the shop's name.

Even worse, half the interior had been turned over to the display of Christmas cards, displacing the pipes from their accustomed shelves.

All was clearly not well with the Leadbetters.

My initial hypothesis was correct. Old Mr Leadbetter was indeed absent and his son, Young Mr Leadbetter, was running the family business in his father's place.

I expressed a hope that the old gentleman was in good health. He was, said his son, very much so. In fact, the week before, his father had been obliged to elope with the Earl of Huntingdon's housekeeper, a woman forty years his junior, having got her "in the family way". By now, he explained, they should be north of the border in Scotland and safely married in Gretna Green.

By the time they returned, he said he hoped that the Earl would have forgotten his threat to go ten rounds with his father and give his blessing to the match.

I shall have to revise my estimation of Old Mr Leadbetter. He is clearly not as decrepit as he looked.

In a state of bemused befuddlement, purchased my usual order, then got waylaid by Young Mr Leadbetter, who asked me if I needed any Christmas cards.

Certainly not, said I.

Not even for my brother, said he.

Not even for him, said I.

Did I know he had got one for me, asked he.

This made my blood run cold. How had he come by this information, I wanted to know.

Sherlock had been in only yesterday, said he, buying 'gifts'. He said this suggestively, as though to imply that I should be thinking along the same lines.

Did not believe him, of course. The Holmeses do not buy Christmas gifts on the principle that individual outlay does not equate to the value of the items received. Whoever said that it was better to give than to receive never met our family.

However, I have noticed that Sherlock has been reviving the old customs these past few years. This I attribute to the influence of his friend.

Dr Watson, so Sherlock tells me, is a fellow who likes to 'do Christmas'.

This presented a problem in their first year of sharing rooms, when Sherlock came to me quite beside himself at having found the sitting room decked with boughs of holly. As I recall, I told him to make a stand for his principles and demand the removal of all extraneous foliage.

Sherlock did not. His reason, so he said, was that he was prepared to rub along with this fellow's whims, since he found him bearable as a lodger and there were doubtless people with far worse vices, himself included.

I suspected at the time there was more to this than he was willing to admit, for my brother is quite the worse dissembler that ever crossed my path. It was not long before _bearable_ became _tolerable_, which quickly became _amiable_. Then it was that Sherlock finally confirmed by worst fears by referring to his fellow lodger as 'friend'.

I find in my diary entry of 13th June 1883 that I was minded to tell him that he was treading a dangerous path. Take the counsel of a more experienced man of the world, said I, and know that friends are hard work. They take up your time, plague you with petty problems and keep your mind from better things. It has long been a family tradition, I told him, that Holmeses do not have 'friends'.

I told him Father would be spinning in his grave if he knew his youngest was playing with fire in his way. I beseeched him to remember Cousin Hamish, who was bitten by the dog of a friend and from that day on never did the Highland Fling again. I exhorted him to follow the example of Mad Uncle Didymus, who was so friendless that not even the vicar wanted to turn up at the funeral.

Would he listen? Not at all, reckless fool that he is!

So, because he thought he knew better, we have arrived at this pretty pass – with my good self having to purchase a Christmas card because my brother let his guard down and embraced sentimentalism.

Admittedly, I had my misgivings about the whole affair – but one does not like to be taken unawares by this sort of thing. If Sherlock gives a card to me, then I would be able to give one back. Otherwise, this loathsome thing will be consigned to the back of my drawer for next year.

Left the selection up to Young Mr Leadbetter, handed over the shilling and left. Got home to find that the card reads:

"_Season's Greetings to a Brother Dear."_

If one takes 'Dear' to mean expensive, then I concede that the message is valid. In any other sense, it is ineffable nonsense, which is generally what one expects from Christmas cards.

Filled in card with great reluctance. Envelope slightly too small, so had to wedge it in. Then heard the ominous rending of paper. Found that one corner had become detached. Message now reads:

"_Season's Greetings to a other ear."_

Vaguely amused by this. If people can wish each other well at Christmas, why not ears?

* * *

_**Next: Saturday, 22**__**nd**__** December 1888 – Hark! The Herald-Angels Sing?**_


	4. Hark! The Herald Angels Sing?

_**Tidings of Comfort and Joy?**_

_Saturday, 22__nd__ December 1888 – Hark! The Herald-Angels Sing?_

Awoken at what felt like first light by an ungodly racket in the street outside, sounding for all the world as though the denizens of Hell had slipped their chains and gathered beneath my window to serenade me in voices that mingled tuneless mumbling with the pained cries of a cat suffering from a strangulated hernia.

Dragged myself from my bed and went to window to investigate. No demons these – they lacked horns, although in all other respects they were more than qualified for the title – but a gaggle of snot-nosed boys with sprigs of holly in their caps.

I threw open the sash and bade them to be on their way. Undeterred, they broke into an impromptu chorus of _'We Three Kings'_.

To those who say there is something charming in a gathering of cherubic children sweetly warbling Christmas carols, I suggest they try it at half past seven on a crisp London morning.

Furthermore, if the youths of this city are enterprising enough to sing for their supper beneath slumbering gentlemen's windows, I heartily recommend that they learn the _correct_ words of the songs. It has been a while since I last heard _'We Three Kings'_ but I believe that:

"_One on a bicycle eating an icicle_

_Following yonder star"_

are emphatically _not_ the words to the first verse.

When I pointed this out to the foursome, they demanded to know "what the proper words were then, gov'ner." As it happened, I could not recall. In my defence, the hour was early and I was quite blue with cold. Even now, I have some vague recollection of 'field and something, something and something', although the exact words still elude me.

The upshot was that a heated discussion followed, which attracted a good deal of attention from passers-by. One elderly gentleman stopped to stay that he thought the words had something to do with camels and donkeys, while a cabman was of the opinion that the verse properly should finish with 'Star of Wonder'. The boys disputed this, saying, quite rightly, that they thought that bit was in the chorus.

As interesting as this was, there was a stiff breeze blowing through my open window and me clad only in my dressing gown and slippers. I decided to bring the debate to an end by coming to a satisfactory compromise – I threw them sixpence and they promised not to return until next year. With that, they left, taking their icicles on bicycles with them.

So it was that I did not start the day in the best of spirits. From then on, things got progressively worse.

Morning post brought my first and, I sincerely hope, only Christmas card. An abysmal thing it was – a scrawled picture of a robin on a Christmas tree with a letter in its beak. I am told that this sort of thing passes for modern art these days – personally, I do not have much time for these loose interpretations where a dab of paint passes for a bridge or a bird or a person in the street. Give me a Raphael or failing that something by Alma-Tadema, so that I might know what I am supposed to be seeing – this impressionistic nonsense is all swirls and blotches to me.

As regards this present offering, it looked like a child had drawn it. Sherlock could do better and he has no eye for art, whatever he says. To add insult to injury, the thing was scribbled on cheap paper too – costing no more than a penny a packet, I should say – and, the worse slight of all, lacking a decent watermark.

I could not have been more affronted had this person not bothered to send a card at all. If one insists on this infernal tradition, then at least they should have the decency to purchase quality cards. I certainly should, if I had the inclination to plague people who I have not seen all year with all good wishes for the festive season. Granted, I refrain from doing so, but all the same, if I did, quality would matter.

As it was, I could not discern the sender's name. The handwriting was, like the picture, an appalling scrawl. Clearly this was written by a man of good education, with a dyspeptic constitution, a squint in one eye and a tendency to _embonpoint_, attempting to disguise his identity by writing with his left hand.

This was very suggestive. I was able to rule out a prank by an acquaintance – they lack the time for such tomfoolery and know that I would fail to be impressed in any case. Therefore, I was led to the inescapable conclusion that this fellow was not a well-wisher, despite what looked like a 'Merry Christmas' emblazoned on the front of the card.

Began to wonder when this mysterious gentleman would make himself known. Was this a warning? A glance from my bedroom window revealed no lurkers, save the roadsweeper and Mrs Morgan, my landlady, deep in conversation. No cabs lingered at the end of the road waiting to crush me under hoof. Even the children with their appalling voices and dubious lyrics had moved on to better pickings.

This being Saturday, my sole destination was the club with only a road separating us. Decided it was worth the risk. Peered out of the front door and found myself accosted by said landlady, all smiles and aprons, saying how cold it was and wishing me a very Happy Christmas. I managed to escape her clutches with the minimum of civility, hurried across the road and retreated into the safety of the Diogenes.

As it happened, I noticed that Horseley-Fetlock was in residence. An obnoxious legal fellow of the first water who shines in an office where the ability to bore for one's country is a desirable trait, nonetheless he showed some aptitude for obscure codes when last year he managed to decipher an intercepted missive from the King of B—, which turned out to be none other than His Majesty's laundry list.

A curious case, as I recall. Our agents had reported that the King had ordered an inordinate amount of stockings in mid-July. Why proved interesting – turned out that he had an unslightly foot fungus and had been advised by his physicians to put on a new pair of stockings every day. Would be interesting to find out whether this unconventional treatment worked. At least the PM knows what to send him as Christmas gift.

After a brief explanation of the problem, I left the card in Horseley-Fetlock's capable hands. He came crawling in to see me a little after lunch, troubled of expression and saying that he had done the best he could, but could make no sense of the message. Was it a new code, he wondered? Message read:

"_Dear Uncle Mycroft, Mossy Christmas and a Happy New Beer, Your Loving Nephew, Gertie."_

The implication of this was clear enough. Since one may only acquire nephews and nieces from the escapades of one's siblings, and since I have only the one brother for my sins, it was abundantly evident that Sherlock had been playing me false all these years.

Cannot say that I was wholly surprised by this turn of events. I have always suspected that Sherlock is rather more appreciative of the female form than he cares to admit.

It is patently obvious now that all that talk of not wanting to marry for fear of biasing his judgement was nothing but a façade, designed to keep me – his own brother, mark you! – from the truth of his nefarious goings-on. Not only has he been openly consorting with members of the opposite sex, but has spawned a family, the members of which were now taking it upon themselves to write to me and address me as 'Uncle'.

The confounded audacity of the thing! How many more of these curiously-named and impudent urchins were afoot and about to unleash themselves upon me?

So outraged was I by this deception that I nearly broke the habit of a lifetime and descended upon him. That I did not was entirely attributable to the chill of the day. My ardour was cooled enough by the time I reached the telegraph office to realise that it would far better to smoke the fox from his den than to confront him on his own territory.

I would have the truth and at my own convenience. Accordingly, I devised a suitable message, calculated to achieve a timely response:

"_You are a cad, a scoundrel and a blackguard. I know about Gertie. Mycroft."_

When one pays good money for a service, one is entitled to expect prompt handling of the matter. As it was, the young fellow behind the counter was in no great hurry to send my wire. Firstly, he had a young woman hanging about his neck. Secondly, she appeared to be making the most of him and he was evidently enjoying her attentions, rather than applying himself to the task at hand.

When I suggested that that was no way to conduct one's self in public, the upstart had the effrontery to reply that as a matter of fact he was not in public, but in the private section of the shop, where the public were not admitted. According to him, this meant that I was spying on them.

"Besides," said he, "it's Christmas, ain't it? What's the matter with you, you miserable old so-and-so?"

Finally, without extracting himself from the arms of the young woman, the fellow did condescend to send the message. He had a smirk on his face when he told me that he had done it; only later did I discover why.

As anticipated, my wire had the desired effect. I received a reply from Sherlock that evening delivered by one of those ragamuffin boys of his – I say 'of his' in the hope that the young chap who came to the door was not the Gertie of the Christmas card – wanting to know what the devil I was talking about. He had enclosed the wire for my inspection. Message read:

"_You are a card, a sandal and a blackboard. Love from Gertie and Mycroft."_

This then was the reason for the young fellow's amusement. As it happens, this may suit my purpose equally well. When I fail to reply, Sherlock will come in person to investigate.

All the same, I shall be making a complaint at said telegraph office tomorrow and to the manager no less. Christmas and my brother have much to answer for.

* * *

_**Next: Sunday, 23**__**rd**__** December 1888 – Away in a Manger?**_


	5. Away in a Manger?

_**Tidings of Comfort and Joy?**_

_Sunday, 23__rd__ December 1888 – Away in a Manger?_

Awoke feeling rather more at ease with the world. When I retired last night, it was in the most indignant of moods. This morning, however, I find that I am not so adverse to the notion that my brother has done the unimaginable and spawned a plethora of little Sherlocks. It might not be such a bad thing to have some little chap sat on my knee, calling me Uncle Mycroft. I believe I could get quite used to the idea.

Besides, staying angry at Sherlock requires more energy than simply resigning myself to the situation, and I am quite unequal to the task of over-exertion, especially on these cold mornings, when one dreads to leave the warmth of one's bed and risk chilblains by putting one's feet to the cold boards.

Such a prospect would not be so bad if one's slippers remained by the bedside where they were left the night before. Mine seem to have a mind of their own. They travel in the night to far-flung corners of the room, out of reach of my searching toes come the morning. The purpose of their midnight journey is unclear, but then so is much in life.

I mention it merely because it is an inconvenience – and because I stubbed my toes on the cabinet getting out of bed.

The only thing worse than injured toes is cold, injured toes. The pain is quite exquisite as the blood rushes to one's extremities and tortures body and soul with a paroxysm of agonies. I hopped, rather ungainly I fear, about the room, clutching my wounded foot and treading on a cufflink with the other, which necessitated my return to bed to nurse my bruises.

A few moments later, the landlady knocked on my door, inquiring as to my well being, for the gentleman below thought that the noise issuing from my room indicated that I was locked in deadly combat with a burglar. I was able to reassure her on this point, and asked her to express my apologies for disturbing the household so early on a Sunday morning. Then, cursing my absent slippers, I endeavoured to dress and then hobble across to the club in time for breakfast.

As expected, Sherlock finally put in an appearance and at half past twelve no less. I have long been wise to his careful choice of time. This close to lunch invariably means he has come expecting to be fed; similarly for dinner, supper and all other times when a meal is rapidly approaching.

From what he tells me, he likes to give the appearance of being able to survive on very little. This I can never understand, although it appears to be a family trait.

I seem to recall great aunt Ethelbertha maintaining that she would never permit a drop of liquid to pass her lips, except for the brandy she had at night, whisky in the morning, port after supper and sherry whenever it took her fancy. When this disparity was pointed out to her, she would always maintain that the alcohol was for medicinal purposes only. Well, perhaps she was right. She did live to be ninety-two, after all.

Similarly, according to Sherlock's strange way of thinking, digestion deprives him of energy and nerve force. I have always found the opposite to be true. I can never concentrate when my stomach is rumbling. The more I deprive myself of food, the more the thought of it consumes me to the point where it becomes a perverse form of self-torture. When I put this to him, he says he is able to focus his mind on better things.

What sort of 'better things', I asked once. The merits of roast beef over leg of lamb, perhaps?

His answer to that was a deprecating look and the assertion that he was capable of surviving on sheer willpower alone often until the point of fainting.

This seems to me a most peculiar manner in which to conduct one's self. Why risk the humiliation of passing out in the street and waking up to find a group of concerned passers-by hovering over one's person? Still, Sherlock will not be told; but I refuse to perpetuate the myth that he eats sparingly. Like dear great aunt Ethelbertha, when the mood takes him he is capable of putting a starving wolf to shame, and today I sensed that inclination was indeed upon him.

First, however, there were matters that had to be resolved. We could not simply continue as we had done so in the past as though nothing had happened. The world had changed with yesterday's revelation. I would have the truth of his marital state, and then we could all act accordingly. If a host of nieces and nephews awaited me, then I would don the role of kindly uncle and send out for gifts to fill their Christmas stockings.

This was borne of a decision that I had reached in the night, that if this situation had been forced upon me, then I was determined to act accordingly and to the best of my abilities. I had given a great deal of thought to the matter, and it seemed to me that toy soldiers would be suitable for the boys and dolls for the girls. Another generation would not have to endure the paltry bags of nuts, oranges and the single shiny penny that Sherlock and I thought ourselves fortunate to receive on Christmas morning.

As it was, he had the bald-faced audacity to act as though nothing was amiss. He lounged in his chair, smoked copiously, and insinuated, quite insultingly, that I was going soft in the head after having received my garbled telegram the night before.

"That was entirely the fault of the boy in the telegraph office," I told him. "However, it does not change the essential facts. I _know_ about you and Gertie."

"Gertie?" he asked. "Who on earth is Gertie?"

"You dare to ask me that," I retorted on him. "Would you deny the fruit of your loins?"

That startled him out of his languor. "The fruit of my _what_?" said he.

I tend to enjoy seeing my brother baffled. Arrogant at the best of times, there is something ineffably pleasing about seeing the haughty arch of his brow drop and that superior expression of his fade to nothing. As I say, normally, I would revel in my ability to strip him of his pretensions, but today it was a necessity rather than a pleasure, since there were greater considerations at stake.

"Your loins, sir!" Over in the corner by the fire, old Ruff-Hedges stirred in his sleep and smacked his lips. I tempered my volume. "I have the proof that you have been abroad in this land sowing your wild barley."

"Oats, Mycroft. The expression is _wild oats_."

"Oats or barley, Sherlock, the result is the same. You have been breeding, and thought to keep the evidence of your philandering from me!"

He had the effrontery to laugh. "Are you quite well? You seem most fevered, brother."

"Well? No, I am most disturbed. Yesterday, I received the most grievous news of my brother, and today I find that even now, faced with the evidence of the outcome of his dalliances, he attempts to shirk his responsibilities." At that moment, I was struck by an even more unsettling thought. "You are married to the mother, I take it? I am a trifle wounded that you did not see fit to invite me to the wedding, but I would rather that than hear that you have abandoned this poor woman."

By now, the smile had vanished from his face. "Mycroft, now you are worrying me. I have not been here ten minutes and already you have had me married off, fathering children the length and breadth of the country, and promptly abandoning them. This is surely the plot of some unimaginative melodrama. If I did not know you better, I would think you had been reading those yellow-backed novels that Watson finds so absorbing."

"This was sent to me by your child, Sherlock." I produced the card that had led to this revelation and threw in on the table in front of him. "Addressed to me as Uncle Mycroft, if you please. Now, sir, deny it if you dare!"

The frown followed by his sigh of impatience as he perused the card told me all was not well. Clearly, he had wanted to keep me from ever knowing about his other life.

Did he think I would not approve? I do not consider myself unreasonable. I believe I have always attempted to be most understanding, even when he insisted on coming down from Oxbridge a year early and following this harebrained notion of his to be a private consulting detective.

"Well, Sherlock," said I, when he was long to reply, "let us have the truth of the matter. Speak up, sir, do you deny this child?"

"Yes, I deny it," he replied. "To begin with, I should never call any son of mine Gertie."

"So, you are ashamed of him? You have burdened the child with a girl's name and now you refuse to acknowledge him."

He had a curious expression on his face when he handed the card back to me and suggested that I read it again.

"Why don't you get yourself a pair of glasses so you can read your correspondence properly, Mycroft?" said he. "Take a closer look and you will find that the sender is no 'Gertie', which should have alerted you in the first instance that the sender's male title did not marry with the female name."

"Do not attempt to use those methods which you employ to impress other people on me," I told him. "I'll have you know that an expert from Whitehall looked at this. He was in no doubt that this is from a nephew called Gertie."

"No, a nephew called _Gervase_," Sherlock said, enouncing the words carefully. He stared at me expectantly. "Does that stir any memories? Gervase – Aunt Evelyn's grandson?"

"Aunt Evelyn's grandson?" I echoed. "No, no, Sherlock, that will not do. As you well know, I am not his uncle."

"Nor am I, but I do not take offence as you do, brother. I would rather be uncle than 'distant cousin Sherlock on my father's mother's side'."

"Then you too received a card from this impertinent imp," said I. "Were you not insulted by this appalling scrawl? The writing is quite dreadful. It looks as though a child had done it."

"A child _has_ done it. He is only four-years-old."

"Really? I thought he was older. Well, what does he want writing to me?"

"Mycroft, it's Christmas. What the devil do you think he wants?" He lit himself another cigarette and I saw that mine was the lesser hand in this fraternal debate. "You should take it as a compliment that he has bothered to remember you at all," he went on, "for you seem to have quite forgotten him. Instead you accuse me of debauchery and immorality of the worst kind!"

"I was misinformed."

"No doubt, but it tells me much of your opinion of me."

By this time, I will admit that I was not in the best of humours. For my part, I do not like to admit to being wrong, even if the fault was not mine. Worse, I seemed to have adjusted rather too well to the notion that my brother had a family of which I had been hitherto unaware. I was feeling brittle and strangely disappointed.

"If you lived a normal existence, I should not have had to go leaping to such suspicions in the first place," said I.

This is a conversation we have had many times in the past, but there is always something comforting in the re-treading of familiar territory. Besides, it was far better than the alternative, the hitherto unheard of prospect of my apologising, which would not have sat well with either of us. Some things, our brotherly relationship among them, are sacrosanct and must be maintained at all costs.

"You have only one thing on your mind," I continued, warming to my subject, "and that is crime and the people who perpetrate it. Other fellows' brothers are happy to furnish them with any number of nieces and nephews, and yet you have not the decency to provide me with one."

"If you are keen to play the role of benevolent 'Uncle Mycroft'," said he, "then may I submit for your consideration young Gervase, who seems more than willing for you to take up that position. Failing that, if you are feeling broody, then I suggest you follow your own advice and stop placing the burden of responsibility for propagating the family line on my head."

I told him that was quite impossible, as I was far too busy.

He said so was he.

After that, the conversation rapidly degenerated into the usual round of sniping and insults. We finished by my calling him selfish and inconsiderate, and he in turn telling me that I was an old curmudgeon, who would not even countenance a few sprigs of holly about the place in deference to the festive season.

"Now there you are wrong," I was able to retort, and explained about the Committee's insistence on a tree for the club. "Return tomorrow and you shall see it for yourself."

"I cannot say where I shall be tomorrow," was his response.

I asked where he might be if I needed to find him. "Baker Street?"

He shook his head. "Mrs Hudson is staying with her sister over Christmas."

"With the Watsons, then?"

An even more emphatic shake of the head. "I thought I might take myself off somewhere."

I am not wholly insensible to the subtle changes of my brother's mood. Judging from his present demeanour, I was quite prepared to say that I was witnessing the settling of the deepest depression, the like of which only the enforced joviality of Christmas can produce.

"Where?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I haven't decided yet."

The problem with coming from a family where everyone knows what the other members are thinking before they have a chance to put their feelings into words is that sometimes one can assume too much. It was slowly occurring to me that Sherlock's laconic replies were his way of telling me that he was soon to be quite bereft of company at a time when the great mass of the population gathers together to do all those things that families do when forced into close proximity.

Personally, the thought of it has always filled me with horror. The Holmes' family idea of a good social gathering is one where everyone fails to turn up. Indeed, for many years, Uncle Hobart feigned death in order to avoid attending the annual family Christmas get-together. Not that I blamed him for that; rather I admired his initiative in inventing an unimpeachable reason for his absence.

Nor was I altogether surprised that Sherlock should be suffering the effects associated with the prospect of a Christmas alone. For the past seven years, I have been aware that he and Dr Watson have been in the habit of observing the festive niceties together. That sort of exposure cannot fail to have a lasting impact on a fellow. Seven years ago, Sherlock would never have quibbled about whether there should be holly in the Strangers' Room; now he feels its loss, like that of his married friend.

I saw that I would have to assume my mantle of elder brother and do what he could not – invite him to join me at the club for Christmas lunch. As determined as I had been that it was he who should do the asking, I found I could not turn a blind eye to his troubles.

"Here?" said he. "I thought you said I would never be invited again after last time."

"Do you promise to behave yourself?" I asked. "Not to criticise the chef's cooking?"

Agree he did, with the greatest of effort, which I thought rather ungracious of him after I had gone to the trouble of extending the hand of Christmas hospitality. I spent the rest of the afternoon nursing my grievances, and went to bed that night still unsure whether my disappointment or my relief was the greater that I had been wrong about Sherlock.

* * *

_**Next: Monday, 24**__**th**__** December 1888 – O Christmas Tree?**_


	6. O Christmas Tree?

_**Tidings of Comfort and Joy?**_

_Monday, 24__th__ December 1888 – O Christmas Tree?_

Awoken yet again ridiculously early, because a fellow with a barrel organ had taken up residence under my window. After hearing the tinny notes of _'Silent Night'_ wafting up to my window for the twentieth time, I opened my window and shouted down to him that a change of tune was in order, or failing that relocation to a new position.

Not sure he heard me – no sooner had I shut the window than he started his infernal contraption up again.

Called in at Whitehall, more out of courtesy than out of the expectation of doing any work. This being Monday, and Christmas Eve into the bargain, I had my doubts that anyone who had not the sense to cry off with sickness had turned up with the intention of getting much done. The clink of bottles was very much in evidence and from offices that should have been the bastions of sobriety, one could hear girlish giggles and manly laughter.

Took myself to Downing Street to see if there were any pressing developments that should be occupying our minds over Christmas. Turned out that the PM was quite overtaken by sentimentality and was therefore incapable of sensible conversation.

The cause of this? A host of children, including his three of his own, from the local school, who had descended on Whitehall to melt cynical hearts with their angelic warbling and collect money for the Seaman's Mission. A worthy cause no doubt, but I object to having my eardrums assaulted in the name of charity; indeed, I would have paid them _not _to sing.

The PM, being as susceptible to this sort of seasonal nonsense as any doting father is wont to be, bore a whimsical expression on his face that I felt was most out of keeping for the leader of the government. Should our enemies see us in such a woolly-minded state, then we would be the laughing stock of Europe. It was hardly likely to inspire confidence amongst our allies either, but I dare say we all have our strange Christmas rituals and customs – it only seems to me that ours are sillier than most.

To compound the situation, he insisted I say and listen. It was then my duty to praise his daughter's solo of _'The First Nowell'_, which was tolerable enough, even if it did stray from the composer's original melody for the most part. Just when I thought it was over, the little imps broke into a rousing chorus of _'The Holly and the Ivy'_.

Having no children of my own – and no nieces and nephews, as I discovered to my cost yesterday – I dare say I am not the best judge of their efforts. One has to have the patience of a saint or be tone-deaf to appreciate the quavering voices of other people's children struggling through _'Once in Royal David's City'_. All I can say is that seemed to me that the parents, the PM included, were getting more enjoyment out of this spectacle than the children. I could not help thinking that their hearts were not in the task, especially the young lad who appeared to be more interested in the contents of his left nostril than the words to _'God Rest You Merry, Gentleman'_. When he extracted something that then went in his mouth, I took this as my cue to leave.

The Foreign Secretary had come to the same conclusion and we slipped out together. Escape was not in sight, however, for he cornered me and took the opportunity to pour out his woes. It turns out that I _was_ right – his mother-in-law is back, _and_ is having trouble with her back, an unhappy combination for all concerned.

Apparently, she has been making his life a misery because she thinks he lacks ambition – why only Foreign Secretary, she wants to know. According to her, by now he should have been PM. Given the state of the current incumbent, I concede that she may have a point.

As to the FS and his mother-in-law problem, he said he was thinking of getting himself arrested in the next few hours – Christmas in a police cell would be a blessing in disguise, so he thought. I have to say that he rose in my estimation – that was an excuse of which Uncle Hobart would have been proud; surely it has to rank up there with his yearly demise.

Advised him against such a rash action, however, since it would only give the mother-in-law another stick with which to beat him. Better to look happy, said I; nothing irritates those with a grudge more than the thought that they have failed to make the object of their ire miserable. This cheered him considerably – the smile that came to his face I believe he intended to keep there for the duration of the Christmas feast. I wished him luck.

Had a narrow escape when I saw the Home Secretary heading in my direction with what looked like a painful limp – someone said he had been advised to try a mustard enema over the weekend; call me selfish, but the details of that misadventure was something I was in no hurry to hear.

It was my intention to head straight for the club, except I felt my conscience pricked as I passed a toy shop and saw a gaggle of children with their noses pressed to the glass. I had tried not to take the disagreement I had had with Sherlock too much to heart, although he had struck a chord. Perhaps I was just a little broody, a condition I attributed entirely to the time of year, which lends itself to introspection of the worst kind. In my case, my thoughts always turn to family.

At my age, our father had put himself to the trouble of finding a woman who could tolerate his company for a few hours at a time and had inconvenienced two families by suggesting that they marry. From their expressions in the wedding portrait, the day had not been a success, and nor were the next nineteen years, if their unwavering frowns were anything to judge by. When they finally ran out of things to say to each other, they died within a six-week period. The doctor said it was due to pneumonia or some such ailment, although others maintained it was terminal boredom. As a recommendation for the institution of marriage, I cannot say that mine and Sherlock's parents were the best examples.

One wonders how, under different circumstances, things might have been different. As the situation currently stands, the survival of the Holmes family solely rests on the head of one small boy, who likes drawing, has appalling handwriting and cannot tell his uncles from his cousins. It is a bleak prospect to be sure.

Still, hope springs eternal. In the absence of Sherlock, myself, or – heaven help us! – any of the rest of the family wanting to do something about it, we must trust that young Gervase will one day surprise us all. Sherlock too was a late developer as I remember. He caused a great deal of worry by taking a long time to utter his first word – he says it was because he had nothing worthwhile to say. I only wish he would adopt the same strategy now from time to time – when the mood takes him, he will chatter on for hours about the dating of medieval pots or the best strings for his violin, subjects which to a man possessed of neither is liable to pall.

However, I digress. The upshot was that I decided to play the role of kindly 'Uncle Mycroft' and give the lad what support I could. I purchased a picture book and a set of colouring crayons, had the shop assistant wrap them and headed straight over to the post office where I joined a queue that stretched nearly out of the door.

Until the day I finally shrug off this mortal coil, I shall never understand the mentality that operates in these places. The general rule is that the longer the queue, the less people there are behind the counter. I have known days when the assistants behind the counter outnumber the customers. They hover, waiting to pounce the moment they sense you are about to open your mouth in a way that is most intimidating. Present them with a lengthy queue, however, and the situation is reversed.

As today, there were ten people in front of me and only one baffled lad behind the counter. The simplest question seemed to throw him into a quandary, so that he had to keep disappearing into the back room to ask the advice of some unseen sage. He would return, after what seemed an age, only to be foxed a moment later when another seemingly simple question came his way.

When my turn came, I promptly forgot myself and asked what I thought was a perfectly easy question: was my parcel likely to arrive at its destination by tomorrow? The lad stared at me, blank of expression and with his mouth hanging open in a manner that gave him the look of a particularly stupid sheep, and finally said that he would go and ask. He shuffled out, scratching at himself, and the other people in the queue behind me let out exasperated sighs.

"What did you want to go doing that for?" said a woman in a heavy brown bonnet behind me. "Asking him difficult questions like that. Why, you'll only confuse the lad."

"I would have thought it well within his scope, madam," said I. "I merely asked if my parcel would arrive by tomorrow."

"If you were wanting it there by Christmas morning, you should've posted it a couple of days ago," said a stooped gentleman with a cane and battered bowler some way back. "That's what the Postmaster says: 'post early for Christmas'. That's what you should've done."

Clearly, this fellow excelled at stating what was obvious to all and sundry, and as such he gained considerable backing from the crowd.

"It's people like you that causes all these problems wi'the post," said the woman. "Leaving it to the last minute and then expecting the poor postman to have to run about wi'your big heavy parcels. Got no consideration, you ain't. It is Christmas, you know."

I said that I was truly sorry to have to put the fellow to such inconvenience on my behalf, although it was my understanding that delivering the post was part of his job. Had I known I was putting him to such trouble, I would have taken it myself.

I fear my attempt at sardonic humour was wasted. Instead, the crowd grew to mumbling ever louder until the post boy appeared, looking even more gormless than ever, and asked me to repeat the question as he had forgotten what it was I wanted to know. I conceded defeat and told him to do the best he could at delivering my parcel.

Then I said the magic words – "it is for a child". Had I announced that the next round of drinks was on me, I could not have produced a more spontaneous effect. The crowd ceased grumbling and came over to my side.

"You make sure it gets to the little lad," said the previously hostile woman in the bonnet, waggling her finger at the bemused fellow behind the counter. "If I hear otherwise, you'll have me to contend with. What else is Christmas but for the little children?"

This was neither the time nor the place for a lengthy debate on the subject, and so I took my leave. No sooner had I emerged from the building than I was surprised to meet coming in the opposite direction Sherlock's friend, Dr Watson. I believe, from the expression that came to his face when he recognised me, that he was sincerely pleased to see me, which is a reaction that does not come the way of the Holmes family very often.

From what Sherlock tells me, and from what little I have observed of the man, he is one of those fellows that one hears about or reads about in books, but exists so rarely in everyday life that to actually meet one is on a par with encountering some strange and exotic species. By this I mean that he is a genuinely decent person.

"Mr Holmes," said he. "What a surprise bumping into you like this. A Merry Christmas to you, sir."

I believe I have also noted before that he is also one of those odd sorts that derive a great deal of pleasure from the festive season. "And to you, Doctor. Late with your posting, I see."

The collection of parcels he carried was near threatening to topple from his arms. "I'm rather behind this year, I'm afraid, what with one thing and another. I fear these won't reach their destinations in time."

"You should have posted early," I caught myself saying. "But I dare say they will make it. I have just sent off a parcel to my nephew, which I have hopes will make it by tomorrow."

His eyes widened. "Your... _nephew_?"

I thought I had better put him right on that issue before word got around. "Cousin would be more accurate. He's only a young chap, so he calls me uncle."

"Ah, I see."

The way he said it suggested that his thoughts had turned to other things, or rather to one person in particular. There followed an inner struggle which was plainly visible on his face, and which appeared to be giving him a great deal of difficulty. I could have helped, since it was obvious to me what it was he wanted to ask. Since I do not follow my brother's habit of breaking into another fellow's thoughts unbidden, on the grounds that it is unforgivably ill-mannered, I left him to frame his question in his own time.

"Your brother," he said at last. "Have you seen him recently? He is well, I trust?"

"Sherlock? I believe so."

"I'm glad to hear it." Again, I noted his hesitation. "Only we – that is to say, Mary and I – invited him to join us for Christmas lunch and I haven't heard from him."

This was news to me.

"There's far too much for just the two of us," he went on. "Mary hasn't any family to ask over and nor have I, so we thought, as your brother was spending Christmas alone this year – partly my fault, I admit – that he might care to join us." He paused for breath. "Do you know what his plans are, by any chance?"

I should have told him to waste not another moment worrying about my thoughtless brother, but to enjoy his Christmas with his wife and leave Sherlock to stew in his own self-induced misery. That I did not was more out of consideration for him than my brother.

It is times like this, faced with the heartfelt concern of a friend that he does not deserve, that I wish I had the energy to take Sherlock to task about his behaviour. Worst of all, he had succeeded in making this poor fellow feel that he had committed some grievous sin by following the lead of countless adult males before him and getting married.

"I sure he's around somewhere, Dr Watson," said I. "If I see him, I shall remind him of his prior obligations."

"Thank you, Mr Holmes. Tell him I'll understand if he's busy. I remember several Christmases ago, we had a case where..." He forced a smile, almost as though he had realised he was on the verge of saying too much. "Well, if he can make it, we'd be pleased to see him."

The situation was worse than I had imagined. I knew that Sherlock had taken his friend's departure from their shared lodgings badly – he has the arrogance to assume that no one, especially not a woman, could ever compete with own scintillating company – but I had not realised that the feeling was mutual.

That anyone would chose to be in a situation where they are constantly overshadowed and appear duller by comparison tells me much of the fellow's sense of awe and loyalty to my brother – but _then_ to actively miss it makes me question either the Doctor's good sense or face the fact that the pair of them may actually _enjoy_ this haring about after criminals that they do.

I have to accept the latter, since Dr Watson is a shining beacon of sanity amongst my acquaintances. If only we had more like him in the upper echelons of government.

As usual, I saw that I would have to assume the mantle of wiser, elder brother and bring calm to troubled waters. Since this could be safely done from the comfort of my own armchair, it was not going to call too greatly on my time or require much effort on my part. Typical of Sherlock – he wants a friend, but fails to appreciate the work involved in keeping one. Well, I did warn him.

Now he was going to have to behave like any other human being and make good on his responsibilities. I could see him do no less – family honour was at stake. We Holmeses never back down from a challenge. Take Grandfather Topham, who claimed it was possible to knock down a wall using only his forehead – and knock it down he did, even if it took him eleven years and broke his nose in the process.

I shall remind Sherlock that perseverance is a virtue – and that I will not tolerate his shabby treatment of a thoroughly decent couple. Go he will, even if I have to bundle him up and have him delivered by the postman.

With assurances that I would do what I could, we parted, he to do battle in the post office and me to make a purchase in Jermyn Street at Leadbetter and Sons, where Old Mr Leadbetter was still noticeable by his absence. From there, I sought sanctuary from the wandering troops of waits, well-wishers and holly sellers in the Diogenes Club, although even here I was not entirely free from the miasmic effects of Christmas.

My first warning was the holly wreath I saw on the door. I entered to find that in my absence my halls had been decked with boughs of holly and ivy. Evergreens were draped copiously about the interior and there was a suspicious smell of pine that I eventually found was emanating from an unfeasibly large tree that had been set up in the Strangers' Room. Evidently Princely-Hiccup had been out spending the club funds.

When I did corner him and ask for both receipts and our change, he said that all he had had left over was sixpence, which he gave to a group of boys singing carols in the street. As for receipts, the people had had purchased the decorations from were too busy to provide him with written confirmation of the amount of his expenditure. Personally, I had my suspicions, not least because I could smell strong alcohol on his breath, which led me to believe that our sixpence now languished in the pocket of the landlord of the King George.

However, I was evidently in the minority. Fellow members I had thought previously sane and as misanthropic as it was possible to be were enthusing about the size of our tree. Ponsonby Ponsonby-Jones said ours was larger than that at the Carlton. Warty Doyle expressed the opinion that it was not the height that counted but the quantity of the branches and the fullness, of which ours presented a pleasing girth. Gusty Matthews piped up that size was not the issue – the fact that we _had_ a tree was what counted.

This year, said he, we would be able to hold our heads up with pride. No more would we be mocked by tradesmen and small children as a bunch of 'old Scrooges'. Now, said he, we had truly embraced the spirit of Christmas.

It was then that he dislodged an orange pomander from one of the branches, which knocked over a lighted candle. This then landed on Ruff-Hedges' copious beard and caused him to smolder. We doused him with the gasogene, after which he woke up and calmly inquired whether it was time for dinner.

All this, and a brother to worry about into the bargain! No wonder I'm grey before my time.

* * *

_**Next: Tuesday, 25**__**th**__** December 1888 – We Wish You a Merry Christmas?**_


	7. We Wish You A Merry Christmas?

_**Tidings of Comfort and Joy?**_

_Tuesday, 25__th__ December 1888 – We Wish You A Merry Christmas?_

London at Christmas is a most dreary place. Dawn comes, but not with that usual bustle that accompanies the birth of a new day. One forgets how used one becomes to the noise, the clatter of hooves, the rattle of wheels, the cries of the flower girl, and the ever-present murmur and rumble of the populace going about their business. Silence hangs over the city on Christmas morn, broken eventually by the toiling of church bells, calling the faithful to prayer.

Until then, one is very aware of the absence of sound. To awake to such a morning is to believe, before one's brain meshes with one's senses, that some great catastrophe has occurred during the night, denuding the city of people and life.

For myself, I awoke with a start, thinking I had gone quite deaf in the night. It took me a good five minutes before I heard the patter of footsteps in the streets outside and I could pull the blankets back over my head, reassured that all was well.

For, summoned by the bells, the people were abroad, parents muffled against the cold, clutching firmly the hands of their little ones, whose faces were aglow with the wonder of the thing and the presents they had found in their stockings. Merrily they went, tripping across the carpet of hoar-frost that made Christmas Day white this year, albeit not with snow. The rooftops sparkled and even the crystallised filth of the streets had been given a dusting of white that gave to the otherwise muted streets of grey and brown a touch of whimsy.

This is the London of many a Christmas card, clean, bright and fresh-faced – and a positive peril to anyone who has to venture out of doors.

I will never understand why people enthuse about the beauty of winter. They will describe in great detail the frosted majesty of a winter morn, and wax poetical about how greater are the comforts of a roaring fire when the snow lies thick upon the ground. I do not harbour such illusions. On such mornings the wind is chill enough to slice the ears from one's head. Hidden dangers lie in the streets – the frozen puddle of horse urine, the snow that turns to slush and slops into one's boots, and the sleet that stings the eyes.

I am seized by no great yearning to rush into the countryside and stare at snow-capped hills or to throw on a pair of skates and hurl myself onto the ice. No, I am quite to content to leave that to other people, or failing that to observe at a safe distance from a cosy interior with a glass of whisky in my hand.

But then perhaps I am a trifle set in my ways. I abhor change – order and method rule my days and I find any deviation from the settled running of things is liable to upset my digestion, not to mention setting me in a foul temper.

Thus, today, Christmas Day, I endeavoured to treat no differently from the average Sunday. Accordingly, I dressed in good time, took myself over to the club and took refuge in a little pre-lunch work in the room I had commandeered some years before in order to have some inner sanctum where I might retreat even further from the other members. I had said at the time that a secure place was needed for the storing of the club's accounts; in actual fact, over the years, I had succeeded in making it my own private domain.

I had all I needed to hand – a magnificent view over Pall Mall, a fireplace and a good supply of spirits. If need be, I could remain here until Christmas was over, untroubled by the upheaval of the season. Not that this space was entirely immune – someone had had the impertinence to put a swag of ivy on my desk. I removed it to a place out of my direct line of sight, and settled down to tackle the club's accounts for the last quarter.

Sherlock wafted in at a little past ten – I say 'wafted' for I noted a decided lack of purpose about him, and that, in my brother, is cause for concern – both for him and the people who have to endure his company. In such a state, he has a tendency to seek out situations to provide him with amusement. Some of these he confines to the privacy of his own rooms, which is deplorable enough. Should this fail, he will turn to the harassment of others, which today I suspected would be the club's long-suffering chef. I had every certainty that lunch was going to be interesting.

Added to which he refused to behave like a normal human being and take a seat. Nothing is less conducive to work when you are aware of a lingering presence at your back, nothing more irritating than having another person in the room who refuses to settle.

I managed to hold my temper until there came a clatter from behind me as several books fell to the floor, dislodged through his clumsy inquisitiveness.

"Will you sit down, Sherlock?" said I. "You're wandering about like a lost soul."

"Where would you have me sit?" said he. "The only serviceable chair is draped with ivy."

"Then move it. Gracious me, it doesn't take a genius to solve that mystery."

"Very well, then I shall sit. And what then am I to do, Mycroft? Watch you work for the rest of the day?"

I threw down my pen. Sherlock in disputatious mood was best tackled with a mind free of the complexities of the balance sheet. Besides, I had something to say to him that would solve all our problems – and free the Diogenes' chef from the worst critic in London.

"Why don't you go?" I suggested.

"Go?" From his tone, he was feigning ignorance. "Where?"

"You know perfectly well – to the Watsons. You have been invited to Christmas lunch."

He made a pretence of brushing lint from his collar to avoid having to answer. "What has led you to that conclusion?"

"For a start, I met Dr Watson yesterday."

"You did?" he asked, showing far too much interest for me to believe he was wholly set against the idea. "What did he say?"

"He told me that you were expected, but had yet to confirm. That, and the fact that I see you in the grip of turmoil, suggests to me that want to go and yet do not."

"I am not in the grip of anything," said he stubbornly.

"Just the results of an indulgence in those occasional indiscretions of yours." The manner in which he glared at me told me my diagnosis of the cause of his erratic behaviour had been correct. "If you circle this room another time, you will be well on your way to making a significant hole in the carpet. As to your social obligations, it is obvious to me that having had such a generous invitation, something is holding you back. So, Sherlock, I ask again, why aren't you going?"

His capitulation was akin to a defeated emperor abasing himself before a victor in battle, and delivered with equal grace. As much as Sherlock dislikes admitting that I am right more times than not, he does sometimes acknowledge that further struggle is futile.

"How can I?" said he. "They are married not yet a year. I refuse to be one of those friends who does not know when they have worn out their welcome and becomes an intrusion. No, it is unconscionable that I should go. I shall have to stay here. If my presence doesn't offend you, that is."

"Your presence _does_ offend me, Sherlock," said I, "because you are skulking here when you have other things you should be doing. You may conduct yourself as you will in private, but there are still the social niceties to observe, which include not disappointing a thoroughly nice young couple – one of them your _friend_, I might add – when they have gone to the time and trouble of inviting you to Christmas lunch. It is intolerable, and unforgivably ill-mannered. As for being in the way, has it ever occurred to you that they might appreciate the extra company at this fraught time of year?"

He gave me a blank look. Sherlock understands nothing about the practical workings of married life.

"Why do you think Father always took us out for walk on Christmas morning? Nothing is more vexatious to a woman than having a man underfoot when trying to organise an occasion like this. If you go, and go you shall, you will be doing your friend a great service – by keeping him occupied and allowing Mrs Watson the freedom to work uninterrupted."

"You do not know that for certain," said he. "As for social niceties as you call them, does it not occur to you that he only made this invitation to be polite? And Watson is, whatever his other failings, polite to a fault."

"Not at all, Sherlock, and I shall tell you why. Because he knows how to _be_ a friend, not just assume to the mantle of one when it suits him. No, hear me out," I said firmly when he tried to speak. "If a member of our sorry clan made such an invitation, you can be sure that it was because they knew the offer would be declined or because they thought there might be money in it for them. For years, Cousin Bertram only tolerated Great Uncle Siegfried's noxious presence at the dinner table because he was living in expectation of a legacy. Serves him right that all he was left in the will was a collection of twelve antique shoe buckles."

Give Sherlock the most obtuse problem, and he will have the answer in the time it takes most men to tie their shoes. Give him something where his heart has to rule over his head, and he is hopelessly lost in a sea of confusion. His consideration was admirable, but woefully misplaced.

I told him to waste no more time, but to leave without delay. I further added that he should go bearing gifts, to which he replied that he had already made provision for such a contingency. Finally, before he left, I gave him one last piece of brotherly advice.

"Do you know what the art is to being a good guest?" I said.

"Not wiping one's mouth on the tablecloth?"

I hoped he was jesting. "Knowing when to leave. I shall see you back here later."

Assuring me that he would, he left, and I, at greater ease of mind and soul, settled down to finish the accounts. Lunch went a good deal smoother for Sherlock's absence, and we were able to pay the chef our compliments without his smouldering resentment at having his culinary skills called into question. I only hoped that Sherlock was remembering to behave himself at the Watsons, although I fancied that in a more intimate setting he would fare better and adopt the utmost civility. Socially inept and disagreeable we Holmeses may be, but when the occasion demands we are never found wanting.

I fear a hearty lunch of asparagus soup, turkey stuffed with oysters and a liberal helping of cranberry sauce, French green beans and white plumed celery, finally followed by plum pudding and brandy dip and as many mince pies, fancies and choice slices of cheese as I could manage, caused the most profound sense of exhaustion to creep over me. I slept soundly until seven, when I was roused by my brother's hand on my shoulder, shaking me into wakefulness.

He draped himself across the chair opposite, lit a cigarette and appeared ineffably pleased with himself.

"The day went well, I take it?" I inquired gently.

He shook his head. "On the contrary, it was a disaster. When I arrived, the household was in something of a turmoil, for the maid had forgotten to put the plum pudding on to boil that morning, so that it was quite unready for the lunch. As a consequence, there was much crying and unnecessary noise, so that I was obliged to remove Watson from the household for his own good and my sanity."

He sniffed and cast a glance in my direction. This, if I understood him correctly, was to be the only acknowledgement I would receive as to my perspicacity of the situation.

"By the time we returned, the goose had been sent round from the local baker, who was doing a better trade in cooking people's Christmas lunch than he does making bread. As geese go, it _was_ a fine specimen." He paused and smiled at the fire. "However, appearances can be deceptive. It transpired that it had been overcooked and was a trifle dry. I have scarce seen so little meat on a bird."

"I trust you did not make a fuss?" I said with some alarm.

"I am not so ungallant to complain, Mycroft, especially when I am a guest in someone else's house. In the end, the lunch consisted of cold tongue and boiled cabbage. A neighbour came to the rescue with a plum pudding, which Watson then decided to cremate. He was, I fear, a little overgenerous with the brandy. As a consequence, we had to throw it out into the street before the house went up in flames."

He laughed in that hearty, noiseless fashion which I find most irritating.

"It was an experience, to be sure," he went on. "I would go so far as to say that it is one of the better Christmases of my remembrance." And then even more irritatingly, he added: "I am glad I made the decision to take up their invitation."

I did not pursue the thankless task of reminding my brother that he did, in no small part, owe the success of his day to me. Instead, feeling rather mellowed by the wine and dulled by the progress of an unfeasibly large meal through my digestive system, I bowed to that convention practised at this time of year, by giving him the gift I had purchased yesterday for him at Leadbetter and Sons.

His response was entirely as I had suspected.

"Mycroft, whatever is the meaning of this?" said he, eyeing the small parcel suspiciously.

"I believe the appropriate response is 'thank you'."

"But what is this?"

"I don't know," I said. "What do you think it is?"

"Well, given the date, I would say it is a Christmas present." He held the parcel up to his nose and sniffed. "And unless I am much mistaken, and I am not, because the smell is quite distinctive, then contained within are Indian cigars."

It was common practice in our family to play 'guess the contents'. The number of glasses broken in this way over the years must have been in double figures. We were encouraged to shake, squeeze, poke and prod our gifts, and were not allowed to open them until we had correctly identified the contents. Frustrating it was at times, but it had the advantage of working both ways. Since Aunt Effie always sent us handmade vests and knitted gloves three sizes too big, we would feign ignorance when we saw her handwriting on the parcel to escape the onerous burden of having to express gratitude and excitement we did not feel.

This had some charm when we were young; for a grown man to continue in this way, however, is quite annoying.

At my urging, he opened the parcel and smiled when he saw that his deduction as to the contents had been accurate.

"Now what on earth possessed you to do such a thing?" said he. "We have not exchanged gifts at Christmas for many a long year. Best guard yourself, brother. This new-found streak of sentimentality could be the first glimmers of burgeoning senility."

I believe that this is not the spirit in which one should receive gifts, when the giver has gone out of his way to purchase something both thoughtful and useful for the receiver. It also reminds me why I stopped this absurd yearly ritual long ago.

"Well, this has not entirely come as a surprise to me," Sherlock continued. "I had an inkling all was not well when you went on the other day about wanting nephews. Quite unlike you, Mycroft. And then, when I saw earlier that monstrosity you have allowed to be set up in the Stranger's Room bedecked with candles, I was certain that you were suffering some sort of seasonal malaise. Is it curable, do you think?"

He said all this with a most disagreeable smirk upon his face that I fear brought out the worst in me. "I have heard that ridding oneself of irksome younger siblings is most efficacious in such cases," I retorted, regarding him sternly. "And that tree was not my doing. I'll have you know I fought it to the last."

"In any case," said he, "I had prepared for such an eventuality. I went so far as to purchase a little something for you, just in case." He took a small parcel from his inner pocket and passed it across to me. "One never likes to be bested in the question of good manners."

"As it happens," said I, opening the paper to find a packet of my usual brand of snuff within, "I was merely following your lead, Sherlock. Young Mr Leadbetter told me that you had been buying gifts, so naturally, I felt compelled to—"

"He told you that?" he interjected. "Why, he told me the exact same story about _you_!"

It did not take a genius to see that we had been the subject of a clever piece of salesmanship, and we were able to laugh at the trick played upon us.

"I dare say we should be very angry with Young Mr Leadbetter," said I, "but it is the season of forgiveness. And snuff is always most welcome."

"As are these cigars," said he, rising to go to the side table, from where he eventually returning with two glasses of sherry. "Well, another Christmas comes to an end. Overall, it has been interesting. I have acquired a reputation and you a nephew. I have discovered that a good meal is not to be had at the Watsons, and we have revived the custom of exchanging gifts."

"Far too interesting for me. I, for one, am heartily glad it is at an end."

"You won't be emulating the example of Good King Wenceslas then, and looking out on the Feast of Stephen?"

"Those foolhardy enough to be throwing open their windows at this time of year risk a lungful of freezing fog followed by rampant bronchitis. Since I am in no haste to away to my grave, I shall be here tomorrow, basking in sub-tropical temperatures and avoiding the tradesmen who come asking for their Christmas Box. I shall leave a bag of sixpences in the charge of the steward and leave them to decide the thing between them."

I caught Sherlock looking at me, a wry smile softening the lines of his face. "Now that is more like the brother I know," said he. "Good health, Mycroft."

I raised my glass in similar salutation. "The same to you, Sherlock. Here's hoping for a much quieter New Year!"

**The End!**

* * *

_Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et al are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All characters and events mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This work of fan fiction is for entertainment purposes only and has not been created for profit._


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